The small apartment felt suffocating, the air heavy with grief. Iman sat on the threadbare couch, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, knuckles white. The silence was deafening, broken only by the occasional creak of the old building settling. It had been three weeks since the accident, three weeks since her world shattered. Her parents, gone. Her little sister, gone. All taken in a blink, a cruel twist of fate on a rainy night. The knock on the door startled her. She hadn't expected visitors, and hadn't wanted them. Her brown eyes, once warm and lively, now dull with sorrow, flickered towards the entrance.
Three men stood there, their faces hardened by the streets, their eyes cold and calculating. The tallest one, a scar bisecting his cheek, spoke first. His voice was gruff, devoid of sympathy. "Iman, we're here about your father's debt."
Debt. The word hung in the air like a noose. Iman's stomach churned. She knew her father had struggled financially, but debt? To loan sharks? Fear, a cold, slithering thing, coiled in her gut. "He took out a loan," the man continued, his tone brooking no argument. "A big one. For his sister's surgery. We need repayment."
Iman's breath hitched. Her aunt, her only remaining family, had been gravely ill. Her father, desperate, must have turned to these men. The weight of his sacrifice, his love, crushed her.
"I... I don't have the money," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
The men exchanged glances, a silent communication that sent a shiver down Iman's spine. The scarred man stepped forward, his presence looming. "Then you'll work it off."
Work it off. The words echoed in her mind, a chilling proposition. What kind of work? Fear clawed at her, but desperation, a raw, primal force, pushed it aside. She had no one else, nowhere to turn. "What... what do I have to do?" she asked, her voice trembling.
The man smirked, a cruel twist of his lips. "You'll find out. Be ready tomorrow morning. Someone will come for you."
With that, they left, leaving Iman alone with the suffocating silence and the chilling realization of her new reality.
The next morning, a car arrived, a sleek black sedan that seemed out of place in her rundown neighborhood. A woman, her features sharp and her eyes cold, emerged. She wore a hijab, but it did little to soften her stern demeanor.
"Iman?" she asked, her voice crisp and businesslike.
Iman nodded, her heart pounding.
"Follow me," the woman said, turning on her heel.
The office was a stark contrast to Iman's humble apartment. It was spacious, adorned with expensive furniture and adorned with modern art. The air was thick with the scent of cologne and power.
The woman led her to a back room, a stark, utilitarian space. On a table lay a pile of clothing: a maid's uniform, but not like any Iman had ever seen. It was a perversion, a mockery. A bra and panty set, sheer and revealing, a garter belt, stockings, high heels, and a hijab, all in stark black.
"Change into these," the woman ordered, her voice brooking no argument.
Iman's hands trembled as she picked up the garments. The fabric felt foreign against her skin, a stark contrast to the modest clothes she was accustomed to. The hijab, once a symbol of her faith, now felt like a mask, a disguise for the degradation to come.
As she dressed, the woman watched, her gaze clinical, appraising.
"You'll learn your duties," she said, her voice devoid of emotion. "Cooking, cleaning, and... other services."
Other services. The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Iman's stomach churned, but she nodded, her obedience born of desperation.
The days blurred together, a relentless cycle of servitude. Iman cooked, cleaned, and endured the men's advances. Their hands, rough and calloused, roamed over her body whenever they pleased. She learned to suppress her tears, to bite her lip and endure the humiliation.
One afternoon, as she was dusting a bookshelf, a man approached from behind. His breath, hot and reeking of alcohol, tickled her ear.
"Turn around," he growled, his voice thick with desire.
Iman froze, her heart pounding. She knew what was coming, and had experienced it before.
He pushed her against the shelf, his hands grasping her hips. His pants were already unbuckled, his erect cock pressing against her.
"Spread your legs," he commanded, his voice harsh.
Iman complied, her legs trembling. He entered her roughly, his thrusts forceful and demanding. She bit her lip to stifle a cry, tears streaming down her cheeks.
The man pounded her as if there is no tomorrow. Iman could only endure in pain and pleasure as the penis pistoned in and out of her genital. She squeezed his members inside of her, knowing that it will make him come faster, shortening the terror she faced. It works as after a short while, he grunted and pushed deep. Iman could feel that his member began to spurt out several doses of his seed deep inside of her.
“Thanks. I need that,” he said and left, leaving Iman barely standing while white liquid started to flow down her legs.
Later, during a meeting, she knelt beneath a table, her mouth wrapped around another man's cock. His hand tangled in her hijab, guiding her movements as he conducted business above her.
The dormitory at night was worse. Men came and went, taking turns with her, their faces blurred in the dim light. She became a vessel for their pleasure, a body to be used and discarded. Her body, once her own, now belonged to them. The uniform, once a symbol of degradation, had become her skin, a constant reminder of her servitude.
Sometimes she received them one-one-one. Most of the time, they get inpatient and abuse her at the same time. She learned to receive them using all of her holes at the same time.
It was painful but slowly the pain subsided and now it was a norm. They even make games trying to see how many or what kind object they can stick inside her. She hates it. Her holes were spread open and not only it pained her, no, the humiliation was much worse.
But what she hated the most was when she was forced to endure what they called a quadruple penetration. She received a cock in her mouth, and either one in her anus with two in her vagina, or one in her vagina with two in her anus.
The pain and suffocation was too much for her; she usually ended up not knowing what happened next as she passed out from it.
There were even times when to have sex with clients to sweeten the deal. She remembers her first customer she served, an old Chinese business man. She remembers as the fat man penetrated her on top of the table as the office watch, all while the man pounded and called her “a Malay slut, sundal” and many more with his hands fondling her breast forcefully. Of course he came in her too.
Months passed, and Iman's body began to change. Her belly swelled, a testament to the seed planted within her. Her breasts, once firm, now heavy with milk, a cruel irony. Her vagina, once smooth and pussy now resembles one belonging to a veteran porn star. A result of daily pounding and stretching.
The men, far from showing mercy, reveled in her condition. Her pregnant belly, a grotesque trophy, was on display, a constant reminder of their power. They continued to use her, their lust undiminished, their cruelty unrelenting.
The boss even said to her “Of course we are happy. Without your monthlies, we can use your pussy all day every day.”
One night, as she lay exhausted after another gangbang, a sliver of hope flickered within her. The baby, a tiny life growing inside her, was a piece of her, a connection to a world beyond this nightmare.
She touched her belly gently, a silent promise whispered to the child within.
"Someday," she murmured, her voice hoarse, "we'll be free."
But for now, Iman remained trapped, her body a prison, her spirit slowly being chipped away, day by agonizing day. The weight of her family’s debt, the burden of her pregnancy, and the relentless degradation threatened to crush her. Yet, deep within, a spark of defiance, a flicker of hope, remained, a silent testament to the resilience of the human spirit, even in the darkest of places.
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